


Breaking The Girl

by terracottaheart



Category: Red Hot Chili Peppers (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Sad Handjobs, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 05:56:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18959245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terracottaheart/pseuds/terracottaheart
Summary: He’s awake, and you feel alive, but you know that his soul is nearly dead.





	Breaking The Girl

**Author's Note:**

> Love this time period in Scar Tissue and thought it might be nice to write something about the pain Anthony was feeling during the recording of BSSM. Hope you enjoy :)

A head rests in your lap with flowing blonde hair that was growing thinner and getting darker underneath, the sun that he’d been resting in for the past weeks having kept it glowing on top. Eyes are closed and lashes are fluttering against his cheek and against your thigh, feeling like little whispers of a fairy coming to give you a fortune, and staring down at him, you know that he would be presented. You move a hand up to brush a few strands behind his ear, and his eyes open for a split moment, looking through the window and then closing again, as if the sight wasn’t pleasing and he couldn’t waste any more time letting it into his senses. He’s awake, and you feel alive, but you know that his soul is nearly dead, decomposing every day, and it breaks you, wrecks you, and you spend hours wondering how someone with such vibrancy would ever be allowed to feel so hollow. _Another reason to not believe in whatever it is people say is up there._

 

He hadn’t been high for a while, wanted to focus on the music, he says, and you’re eternally grateful and contradicting yourself, knowing only a god or some magical existence in the sky could make him quit. _Not quit, just a break_ your mind reminds you, the realist that you always were coming to the surface to bring you back down from that happiness you longed for.

 

You don’t know how he is staying sober, though. There’s so much pain, the light behind his eyes is gone, and he’s there with you but everywhere else, and you’re running and chasing, but he’s always out of reach, always has been, and always will be. You can hear it in the takes of I Could Have Lied, you wonder how he isn’t crying, or if he is and his voice is just supposed to sound that way when he’s releasing those emotions. Part of you thinks that maybe you had written those lyrics, they were too real to what he made you feel, too much of everything in your heart to have no correlation to you and him and the mess you’d created between each other.

 

“I love days like these,” and his voice is soft and almost childlike, and your fingers run through his hair again.

 

You’d asked him one time if he was in love with anyone as you lay tangled up in each other and the sheets, blissed out and empty in every form of the word. You were internally begging, pleading him to say yes, nod, kiss you, take you away and show you that it was _you you you_ and how could it ever be anyone else? But he shook his head and muttered a ‘no’, and you wanted to scream and push him off and never see those eyes again, but you just grabbed a cigarette and then another, burning the words off the back of your throat.

 

“We should go down to the pool,” you suggested, and he pondered it for a moment before shaking his head and nuzzling against you like he did too many times before, bringing you back to the dreams you’d had of waking up next to him in some far off land, whispering _I love you_ in the air.

 

“Not today.” You knew it was because Flea and John and Chad were all down there, surprisingly, since everyone had shifted away and isolated themselves during their time in the house. One night, in the midst of his vulnerability and fear of what comes next in this life, Anthony had admitted to you that he felt like they weren’t his friends anymore, like they had given up on him and he had given up on them, and that their ties were cut, and it hurt more than anything because John was his brother who had become a stranger and Flea was his soulmate who had found someone else. Then he handed you the lyrics for Under The Bridge, and you wanted to cry, but how do you cry for someone who can’t cry for themselves?

 

“Anthony -”

 

“Please don’t.” It breaks your heart, and you shut up, sliding down the bed so you could wrap your arms around his frame that was becoming smaller and bigger and smaller again, and he could never stay the same, but he hadn’t changed either. His face was against your neck, breath warm and fanning on your skin, and you hoped he couldn’t hear the increase in your heart rate, and that he couldn’t feel the heat radiating through your bloodstream, or see the goosebumps that were rising on your skin like braille on a sheet of paper.

 

A few minutes pass and then there are lips under your ear and a hand pushing your shirt up, and you are craving his touch so bad, but it’s also repulsive, and you want to curl up and go away, but you want to spread your legs and give him more than he could take.

 

“Yeah?” He whispers, and you can’t give him everything, won’t let yourself, so you push your fingertips into the sweatpants he had on and your hand is wrapping around his cock, stroking and squeezing, and lips are against yours now, and a tongue finds your own, and that hand that was up your shirt is traveling south to rub against you.

 

It’s lazy and sloppy and you’re both breathing heavy and sucking on each other’s tongues and lips while getting each other off with just your hands, groping, pressing, grasping, tugging, gentle and rough and slow and desperate, fingers pushing in to pull out, thumb pressed to a head soon to leak with the bittersweetness of your deepest desires. You moan out his name once, he breathes deep down your throat, choking you with his existence, and god, what a heavenly way to die.

 

One, two strokes and he’s coming on your hand, a guttural moan escaping from his chest, and you’re tightening around his fingers, head falling back, and he wastes no time in marking your skin that is now exposed, and you wish he wouldn’t mark your body if you couldn’t mark his soul, but you let him, figuring some is better than none.

 

He’s falling asleep and you’re grabbing a cigarette, but it doesn’t nothing to bury the taste of his name on your tongue, instead imprinting his touch and his sighs on your lungs, as if he is the nicotine, and you can’t help but think how much business that brand would make. He is more addictive, more deadly. You fall to your knees for him.


End file.
